


Shrodinger's Litter Tray, Full and Empty

by Wirrrn



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Experimental, M/M, Poetry, free-form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wirrrn/pseuds/Wirrrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of poetic free-association about why Alex Krycek does what he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrodinger's Litter Tray, Full and Empty

  
**SHRODINGER'S LITTER TRAY, FULL AND EMPTY**  
  
by  
Wirrrn  
  
  
  
  
  
Puff of air from your lungs,  
push of air displaced by the blade  
  
 _(fwwwwzzzzzzzziiiiip)_  
  
that gleams  
  
almost as cold as the steel in your heart  
  
and another of his potential murderers falls,  
needing this job like another hole in the head  
  
You pick up the rifle  
  
(cheap, American crap, as always,  
your Grandfather wouldn't have used it  
to push back in his haemhorroids)  
  
put the scope to your eyes  
and watch him through it,  
centering him in the spider silk,  
cobweb crosshairs contain that strange brain.  
  
You wonder if he knows  
how many they've sent,  
how many you've killed  
if he's kept score  
  
  
but you think he's most probably oblivious,  
and you don't keep count  
  
(notches are for beds and belts,  
not holsters and handguns)  
  
Dropping the rifle to the loam  
  
(perhaps someone will find it; you are a high-priest  
of Random Mayhem  
  
(As long as it's directed Outward)  
  
you watch him again  
  
  
Always better with your naked eyes  
  
He's down there

armoured in trenchcoat and umbrella,  
animatedly amicably arguing,  
as copper-coloured reason puts down tiny, logical foot  
  
How many times can he play chess with Death,  
before Charon stops letting him  
keep his fingers on the pieces?  
  
You can never stay mad at him long though,  
not even for Siberian Forests or Parking Garages  
  
As you cool down figuratively,  
the body behind you literally,  
you watch him move  
he and his partner of before you and after you  
You drink him in  
through eyes that are grey to him,  
in his black and white world  
  
Down the hill now  
  
(just a small bump, not a grassy knoll, wiseass)  
  
doll's limb thumping against your thigh  
in a rhythm that reminds you of his thrusts  
until you grab unfeeling plastic with warm twin  
and force it from your side,  
stow it in one of your mysterious, bountiful pockets  
  
Sometimes at night,  
you feel a twitch in the space it filled  
as though unfingers remember,  
the roughness of gulag stubble,  
the whorls of hair on the chest beneath,  
the small puckered scar on the shoulder where she-  
  
-She's the only one who ever has,  
the only one who ever will,  
You see to that;  
send every sniper, every poisoner,  
everyone who stares cold disdain  
and fires words like "Spooky"  
back to black lunged Satan that conjured them  
out of mud and ash  
with yellow-stained fingers  
  
  
Send them back broken,  
for the musclememory of a chest,  
warm beneath your fingerspan:  
a flash of red lycra and the smell of chlorine  
the spongy give of a mole on a cheek beneath your  
tongue,  
your name  
  
(the First, with a purred "X",  
not the Last, with hard and hated "ck")  
  
  
dancing on that pouty lower lip  
as he dripped musky sweat onto your chest or your back  
  
kisses sticking to your hair  
  
(knew the gel had to be good for *something*)  
  
and a smile he's never used since

  
not even for her  
  
And so you'll look out for him,  
to spite him, despite him  
until your veins run dry  
  
(or pump black ichor instead of red tissue)  
  
He has you,  
His Friendly Enemy,  
His One-Armed Bandit,  
His Black-Leather Demon,  
His Green-Eyed Monster  
  
and maybe someday he'll notice  
and touch you again  
  
but  
  
you  
  
won't  
  
hold  
  
your  
  
breath  
  
It's hard to do that anyway,  
when you're running.  
  
  
  
\----end----

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a binge-watch of all the Krycek episodes of THE X FILES a desire to do something a little different and experimental and my abiding hard-on for Nicholas Lea.


End file.
